


Come Fly With Me

by ChancellorGriffin



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Abby Is a Dirty Girl, Airplane Sex, Anal Sex, F/M, Marcus Is a Dirty Boy, Mile High Club, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Public Masturbation, Public Sex, Shower Sex, This One Is Very Extra You Guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 23:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19161136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin
Summary: A surprise upgrade on an international flight brings all Marcus Kane's most hidden fantasies to life.





	Come Fly With Me

**Author's Note:**

> From the 2019 Kabby Kink Meme (link here - https://kabbykinkmeme.livejournal.com/1042.html?thread=138514#t138514 ).
> 
> ORIGINAL PROMPT: "Mile-High Club. Kane and Abby find themselves all alone in the first class cabin. Modern AU, I guess? But writers choice."

**Part I. _International Terminal, John F. Kennedy Airport_**

Marcus decides there's a special place in hell for airline passengers who make the desk agent cry.

Nearly everyone on the flight, it turns out, is headed to the TEDGlobal Conference just like he is (though it seems to mean a great deal more to them than to Marcus), which means everyone needs to be in Tokyo for Wednesday's opening gala, and the announcement of the delay causes instant pandemonium.

The flustered young Singapore Airlines employee, trapped behind the desk as the line grows longer and noisier and more chaotic, is doing her best. She squeezes as many people as possible into the next available departures, bears patiently with their gripes about being moved into middle seats, and liberally distributes taxi vouchers for everyone who now has to race to Newark or LaGuardia to catch the last flights before they board.

Marcus gives exactly zero fucks about missing the opening gala. He would, in fact, prefer it, since black-tie events make him itchy and claustrophobic. As every other passenger booked on flight 1124 lines up to scream at the gate agent, he stays right where he is, seated quietly in the corner with his book. But the furious mob becomes harder and harder to ignore, as the line grows so long it begins to wrap around into the seating area, and the torches and pitchforks begin to come out once the back of the line starts realizing that all two hundred passengers may not end up getting rebooked tonight. “But doesn’t this girl know who we _are???”_ the shocked whispers begin to rise into shouts. “Does she not _realize_ we work for the world’s most important companies and are on our way to participate in society’s most elite gathering of global intellectuals? Has she failed to note that we are the kind of people for whom exceptions are always made? _Why am I still waiting in a line????”_

As an anthropological study of human behavior, it's weirdly fascinating. Somehow every single person who steps up to the counter believes, from the depths of their soul, that their need to be at the TED opening gala supersedes the need of every other person in line who has just said the exact same thing. No one has said “thank you” once, even the first few dozen who were rerouted fairly seamlessly (the midnight departure has a brief layover in Berlin but still only gets them in about two hours later). Everyone seems to believe that this young woman, who works behind a desk all day, is somehow personally responsible for the fact that the plane failed a safety check on landing and can’t leave the ground until it’s been fully inspected.

The delay is announced at 9:45 p.m. The flight’s scheduled 10:30 p.m. departure comes and goes. By midnight, the inspection is still underway, as is the yelling, no one knows when the plane will actually get to take off, and the gate agent is near tears.

Marcus gives up trying to concentrate on Ta-Nehisi Coates, shoves his book back into his faded canvas messenger bag, and departs in search of a Starbucks that hasn’t closed yet. He returns ten minutes later and sets a venti black coffee on the gate agent’s desk.

“I don’t know if this is allowed,” he tells her, “but it seemed like you might need it.”

Before she can even thank him, he’s returned to his seat and pulled out his book again. By the time the flight finally boards, at 1:30 a.m., almost everyone is gone.

The gate agent takes his boarding pass and exchanges it for a new one. “Almost all of Business and First Class asked to be rebooked,” she tells him.

He raises an eyebrow. “Asked, or demanded?”

She rubs her temples wearily in response. “Anyway, the whole upstairs cabin is empty now, pretty much. So I upgraded you, to thank you for being so nice.”

“You didn’t have to do that. The delay wasn’t your fault.”

“You were the only person who seemed to think that,” she says. “And I really did need that coffee.” She scans his new boarding pass and waves him on his way. “Safe travels,” she tells him warmly. “I hope you enjoy the flight.”

_I can’t imagine I will,_ thinks Marcus, who finds air travel boring beyond measure, but he appreciates the gesture.

At least First Class has free booze.

* * *

  **Part II. _Singapore Airlines Flight 1124, New York to Tokyo_**

Marcus didn’t even know they still _made_ planes with an upstairs cabin.

He's a stringer for the _Washington Post_ ’s Global Affairs desk. He has never flown First Class in his fucking life.

There are sixteen seats (four rows total) which face opposite directions: window seats toward the front of the plane, aisle seats toward the back. Marcus takes the last window seat; whether in a restaurant or on a plane, he always prefers his back to a wall with the whole room in view. He wasn’t a war correspondent very long, but it left him jumpy.

The flight attendant walks him through the complicated electronic wall panel which controls the lighting, the entertainment console, and the privacy partitions, as well as how to recline the seat into a bed.

No one still left at the gate when they boarded was booked in First Class, and he applauds the agent’s minor act of rebellion in refusing to upgrade any of the downstairs passengers who yelled at her. As he settles in with his book and his free beer, he’s fairly sure he’s going to have the cabin to himself, a notion which gives him a dirty little thrill.

Marcus Kane fucking _loves_ jerking off in public places.

He’s responsible about it, of course, he's not an _asshole,_ he always leaves a place cleaner than he found it and has very strict rules. Nowhere near food, medical equipment, or anything that needs to remain hygienic. Nowhere near other people who might not want to see a strange man with his dick out in the middle of the library, or on the dance floor, or on a Ferris wheel. He's not a harasser. It’s more about the _challenge_ of it all, the erotic thrill of risking getting caught, without ever _actually_ getting caught.

He’s pleasantly contemplating whether he’d rather do it with his seat back up (so he can watch himself), or reclined into a bed (more comfortable, potentially) when his plans are thrown sideways by the sound of footsteps on the spiral stairs, as the flight attendant returns with a second passenger.

"Found our last straggler!" she says brightly. "She was still waiting in the first-class lounge."

Marcus doesn’t look up, out of some vaguely ridiculous fear that they’ll be able to tell from his face that he was thinking about masturbation, so he remains relentlessly fixed on the pages of his book until an absolutely majestic pair of legs appears in his periphery, in the aisle seat at the front of the cabin. She, too, has a wall at her back and the entire cabin in her line of sight; he wonders whether it was selected at random, or whether she's like him.

The seats are staggered, to make room for the fold-down dining tables and the fully-reclining beds, which means he has a remarkably clear view of those legs in the space between the two rows that separate him from her. She could cut him off from view completely by raising her privacy partition - they’re allowed to do that before takeoff, if they like - but she doesn’t. She simply crosses her legs, leans back against the headrest, and closes her eyes.

Marcus ventures a slightly more direct glance, over the top of his book.

_Fuck._

She might be the sexiest woman he’s ever seen.

His age, give or take. Small and slender. Black knit wrap dress, black stilettos, a khaki trench coat folded on the seat beside her, next to a sleek laptop bag. Long brown hair, threaded faintly with silver, draped over her shoulder in a practical braid. Chic black eyeglasses. Red lipstick. And those _legs._ Dancer’s legs, slim and taut with muscle, crossed elegantly to reveal a tantalizing flash of creamy white thigh.

He’s torn between praying she raises her partition (so she won't see when he pulls out his dick later and thinks of her while he strokes it) and praying she _doesn’t,_ so he can keep staring.

He pulls the fleece Singapore Airlines blanket out of the drawer beside his seat and drapes it over his body, even though he’s the farthest thing from cold. But he’s definitely going to need something covering his lap if he has to spend fourteen hours staring at that thigh.

The flight attendant’s safety overview is mercifully abbreviated, albeit with a few extra details specific to the upstairs cabin. Once they take off, they won’t see her again until breakfast, so she walks them through the storage compartments along the back wall which have everything they need, from pillows and blankets to earbuds and iPhone chargers. There’s a remarkably luxurious bathroom (including, rather astonishingly to Marcus, a full-sized shower) and a tiny kitchenette for their use during the hours between meals, which are the only times the crew comes back upstairs. It’s little more than a refrigerator, a pantry and a Keurig, but it’s nicely stocked; everything from champagne to gourmet sandwiches is provided.

Marcus could get used to traveling like this.

The woman in black - who does, actually, seem used to traveling like this - listens politely, accepts a glass of red wine which she polishes off with impressive speed, and waves off the flight attendant’s offer to help her raise her privacy partition as being far too complicated to bother with. “Besides, there are only two of us,” she points out, looking directly at Marcus for the first time with a wry smile and making him uncomfortably aware that her throaty voice is as sexy as her legs. “I’m not sure how much more privacy a person needs. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

Which leaves Marcus in a somewhat uncomfortable position; he can’t raise his privacy partition _now,_ of course, without coming off as rude. Not after she’s smiled at him so conspiratorially like that. But if he doesn’t, and if she’s one of those people who can’t sleep on planes, then he’s going to have to come up with a way to justify taking like three separate showers to keep his dick under control, because fourteen hours is a really, really, _really_ long time, and _fuck,_ she just uncrossed and recrossed her legs again.

Then, “Enjoy your flight!” chirps the attendant, and “I’m sure we will,” replies the brown-haired sex goddess, pulling out her Kindle, and ten minutes later they’re in the air.

*** * * * * ***

He’s not expecting to find himself this drowsy, this quickly - it was only one beer, plus there was that venti black coffee less than two hours ago, and he’s always been a night owl anyway - but it was a long fucking day. The “pack your bag, Charmaine’s OB-GYN won’t let her fly so you have to go to Tokyo and cover the TED global health panel” call came in literally as he was leaving the office, so everything was a scramble.

The woman is still buried in her Kindle, and the soft occasional tap as she turns pages is weirdly soothing, even though Marcus is a paper-book snob and a known dick about e-readers. He’s initially planning on finishing his own book, grabbing a snack from the kitchenette and maybe a second beer, but he doesn’t get very far. Three pages in, he decides to raise the lower half of his seat so he can stretch out his long legs in front of him. Five pages in, he decides to dim his too-bright reading lamp (the rest of the cabin is in darkness except his personal light and hers) and recline his seat back slightly. Ten pages in, he decides he’s too comfortable to move right now, and vetoes the sandwich and beer. Thirteen pages in, the book drops from his hands to his lap, he switches off his reading lamp, and the hum of the plane’s engines as they soar through the night sky lulls him to sleep.

When he wakes up, he has no idea what time it is, or how long he was out for. It’s nearly pitch black in the cabin, nothing outside his window but inky clouds faintly illumined by the fog-blurred twinkle of the little red lights on the wings of the plane, nothing inside but the ice-blue glow inside the glass door of the refrigerator behind him. She’s turned off her reading lamp, too, and at first glance, in the darkness, he’s sure she’s asleep.

Then he hears a soft little sigh, and he suddenly realizes she isn’t.

He holds perfectly still, opening his eyes only a crack to let them adjust to the darkness. The woman has adopted the same seating position as him - legs comfortably outstretched, frustratingly concealed beneath a bulky Singapore Airlines blanket, seat back slightly reclined. Her eyes are closed, her red lips curved upward in a drowsy, contented smile, and he suspects he was out long enough that she thinks he’s completely asleep.

He can just barely make out the movement of a hand beneath her blanket, and her breathy little moans are very discreet, but it’s enough to make his cock begin to strain almost violently against the inside of his jeans.

_She’s like him._

Distantly, he wonders if it’s sexist that he’s this surprised to find a woman who shares his secret kink; it’s not like he doesn’t know women masturbate. But he somehow thinks of this hidden little perversion of his as something uniquely male, and he’s thrilled beyond reason - as well as turned on - to realize he was wrong.

Heart pounding, fighting to keep his breath steady so he doesn’t give the game away, he watches through half-closed eyelids as her hips wriggle and squirm and the hand beneath the blanket moves and her back arches off the airplane seat and then a long, slow exhale shudders out of her, and he realizes he just watched her come.

The polite thing to do here would be go back to fake-sleep for another half an hour or so, to let her compose herself, before loudly and visibly making a show of waking up; that way he’d leave her with the comfort of believing her private moment had remained private. Anything else would make him kind of an asshole, and Marcus isn’t an asshole, and he’s not a sexual predator, he’s a good liberal feminist ally who donates to Planned Parenthood and went to the Women’s March and he’s cautious to the point of being a buzzkill about consent, and he doesn’t want to be the guy who whips out his dick in front of a woman he doesn’t know; but somehow, an alien force possesses him and he absolutely cannot stop himself from carefully maneuvering one hand beneath his own blanket and slowly undoing the fly of his jeans.

The sound of the metal zipper is suddenly the loudest noise in the world.

The woman starts, eyes flying open to meet his, and even in the darkness he can see how rich and deep and brown they are. As sexy as her voice, and her legs, and her gasping little orgasm sounds. His hand freezes in place, while he waits in panic to see whether she’s going to be quietly mortified, or slam the emergency call button and report him.

But she does neither.

Instead, a slow, languid, mischievous smile plays across her face, and she removes the blanket from her lap, offering him a better view of her spread thighs, and the hand still buried between them.

She’s not embarrassed, and she’s not angry.

_She likes this._

So Marcus takes the invitation she’s very clearly extending him, and discards his own blanket, spreads his legs a little wider and tugs his zipper down all the way before reaching in to lift his cock out of his boxers.

Her eyes widen as she takes it in.

Yeah. He knows.

She’s not the first to give him a look like that, practically licking her lips as she stares at it.

It’s long and sleek and smooth, the dark hair neatly trimmed, the flared head beginning to flush rosy-purple with arousal. He’s half-hard already, even before he’s touched himself, and he can see on her face that she knows it was her who did this to him.

Her eyes drift back up from his dick to meet his gaze, and she gives him a little nod of invitation, sitting back in her seat, like _well? what are you waiting for?_ , and under any normal circumstances Marcus might hesitate to zoom past propriety this quickly with a stranger whose name he doesn’t even know, but hell, it’s already been such a weird fucking night, so he doesn’t fight her at all. He just leans back in his seat and lets the woman watch him hungrily as he begins slowly, lazily to stroke his cock.

It’s _shatteringly_ hot, being watched like this, and he’s pretty sure he's going to finish teenager-quick, even before she ups the ante by withdrawing her fingers (with a slow lick that makes him shudder) and yanks open the sash of her wrap dress.

Black silk bra. Black cotton panties. They’re sexy - hell, _anything_ on her would be sexy - but it's not actually lingerie, which somehow turns him on even more. She didn’t dress for this; she's not traveling towards or from some wild erotic encounter. Her clothes, her hair, her behavior to the flight attendant, the expensive laptop peeking out of her briefcase, mark her as a perfectly ordinary businesswoman. She's not some kind of airline exhibitionist hiding a corset under that dress to seduce whoever sits across from her; she’s just a human being.

A human being who couldn’t go fourteen hours without an orgasm, which Marcus can totally respect.

For a long time she just watches him, and it's excruciatingly erotic that she still has her glasses on. Like she was reading some boring financial report and then suddenly needed three fingers inside her cunt _right the fuck now_ so she just set down her Kindle and went at it.

Marcus thinks he might be in love with her.

After a few moments, she kicks off her stilettos and lifts one bare foot to plant it on the seat beside her, opening her thighs to his gaze, and _Jesus_ she’s limber (ballet in her youth and Pilates now, if he had to guess). She slides her fingers back inside the waistband of her panties, and begins to gently play with herself.

The unspoken rules hang in the air between them, as clear as if they were written in neon letters. They don’t speak. They don't move closer to each other. All communication is in glances and nods. He can tell, for example, that she wants to watch him go harder, from the way she bites her lip and leans forward slightly in her seat, eyes devouring his dick. And she, in turn, can tell that he wants her to take off her bra so he can look at her tits, because, well, he can’t stop staring at her tits. That one wasn’t exactly in code.

But the fact that she strokes her own nipple with one hand while fucking herself with the other is definitely a bonus he didn’t plan on, and it moves things along from his end pretty swiftly; the precum is practically pouring out of him at this point, his fist making obscene slicking sounds as it jerks up and down his shaft. He lets himself just drink her in - the slight bounce of her tits as her thighs shift on the seat, the way her hand movements accelerate with his.

There’s a box of tissues helpfully built into the wall above his seat and she grins with anticipatory delight as he reaches for them. Their eyes are locked on each other with laser focus as her whole hand disappears inside the black cotton. He can tell she has three fingers inside her while the heel of her palm grinds hard at her clit, and he wants to wait her out but then she gives a sharp little gasp like she’s rubbing her own G-spot and he’s never met a woman who was this skilled at fucking herself and he can’t hold out any longer, his orgasm hitting him like a runaway goddamn freight train as he comes over and over, shuddering like a million volts of electricity are rocketing through him.

She watches, wicked enjoyment written all over her face, and waits until she has his full attention again, after his body has finally come down from the ceiling, before she finishes herself off.

Like she wants to make sure he sees her come.

Like maybe she wanted him to see it before.

She lets herself be just a little bit noisier this time - still soft enough to avoid being heard downstairs (they’re in a metal box, after all, it’s a goddamn echo chamber, nobody here wants a public indecency charge), but loud enough that Marcus’ spent cock twitches with every soft moan as she comes hard, cheeks pink, gasping for breath.

She never takes her eyes off him.

Then she withdraws her fingers, licks them clean again, puts her bra back on, reties the sash of her wrap dress, blows him a kiss, and closes her eyes to go to sleep.

Marcus sits there, shellshocked, dick in one hand, fistful of Kleenex in the other, and stares at her with his jaw on the floor.

_What the fuck just happened?_

  *** * * * * ***

She sleeps until breakfast.

He doesn’t sleep at all.

When he hears footsteps on the staircase, he looks at his watch. 9:30 a.m. in New York. They’re somewhere over Eastern Europe now; the late afternoon sun beams in bright gold through the crack in his window shade. The woman in black is awake and yawning. She’s barefoot, still, and hair rumpled from sleep, but other than that she's perfectly composed. Marcus, too, has long since disposed of the evidence of last night's misdeeds; his seat now smells like antibacterial wipes, though the flight attendant (Harper, her nametag says) doesn’t seem to notice. She sets an elegant continental breakfast on his table, complete with a steaming silver carafe. “Maya the desk agent said to make sure I hooked you up with coffee from the captain's private stash,” she tells him. “She said you’d know why.”

“My goodness,” says the woman, eyeing him with amusement. “Sounds like quite a history between you and Maya the desk agent.”

“There was a mob of angry passengers giving her hell. I just brought her some coffee. It was nothing.”

“It was more than nothing,” says Harper. “You’re the only passenger she upgraded. We could have filled this whole section, but -”

“But everyone who was a jerk got left in coach,” says the woman, with visible delight. “I want to buy Maya coffee now too. I’ll ask for her when I get back to New York.”

“Anyway, she says, 'Tell him he doesn't have to use the Keurig, he can have the fancy stuff.'”

“Do I also get the fancy stuff? Or do I have to use the Keurig, as punishment for hiding in the first-class lounge because the concierge said the line at the gate was insane?”

“I’ll share,” Marcus assures her. “I’m a very nice person.”

The woman raises an eyebrow, her gaze flicking down to his crotch just slightly, then back up again. “Oh really?” she inquires wryly, and he flushes and looks away.

“Don’t worry, I'll keep you both refilled,” says Harper. “We like to leave you be at night, so everyone can get some sleep undisturbed. But for the daytime leg of the flight, I’ll be up here to check in much more regularly, so you can have whatever you need."

“Terrific,” says the woman politely, her face giving away nothing as Harper departs back down the stairs.

_Well, I guess that’s that, then,_ Marcus thinks, surprised at how bitterly disappointed he feels. But another tryst is too risky, Harper could pop back up the stairs at any moment, and he doesn’t want to ruin her good impression of him.

Still, he can’t stop his cock from twitching at the way the woman looks up at him, eyes wide, as he unbuckles his seatbelt and rises to approach her, only to deflate a little as she realizes he’s only coming to share his pot of coffee.

“Thank you,” she says, holding out her cup for him to fill. She takes it black, too.

She doesn’t invite him to join her, and he doesn’t ask. He returns to his seat and pulls out his Ta-Nehisi Coates as she takes up her Kindle, and they eat and read in silence until Harper returns to collect their trays.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Marcus says, after she's departed again, “unless you’d like to go first?”

_Or come in there with me?_

“Be my guest,” the woman says. “I'll go next.”

In the scalding hot steam, he braces one hand against the metal wall and fucks himself with his fist harder than he ever has in his life, biting back his loud groans in case Harper is back, thinking about what’s inside those black cotton panties, thinking about those dancer’s legs wrapped around his waist. He comes all over the wall of the shower, striping it with ropes of hot white cum, and on a wicked impulse he leaves it there, instead of washing it off.

When the woman emerges from her shower, later, clad in her black wrap dress again and smelling of rosemary, damp hair braided down her back, she pauses beside his seat, waits for him to look up at her, and then very slowly lifts one finger to her mouth and licks it.

“Don’t worry,” she says with a devilish smile. “I cleaned up after you.”

Then she returns to her seat.

They don’t speak again for the rest of the flight.

* * *

**Part III. _Narita International Airport, Tokyo_**

It’s just approaching dawn when they land, and he’s decided that as soon as they’re out of the plane and onto the solid ground of the airport, he’s going to ask her to breakfast. Or for her phone number. Or her hand in marriage. Or at the very least, her name. Perhaps superstitiously, he feels like he can’t do it before then; it would be breaking the strange unspoken rules of erotic anonymity that spontaneously emerged last night. But once they’re in a building full of people, once they’re in a city again, once reality crashes back in, it seems logical that the next step would be, well, to introduce themselves.

But he doesn’t get the chance.

His editor calls the literal second he switches his phone out of airplane mode, and he’s forced to pause on the stairs behind her, as they descend to the main cabin, to dig up the crumpled printout of his itinerary from the bottom of his bag. By the time he makes his way down, the coach passengers are disembarking, and he can’t see her anywhere.

Harper is standing by the exit, politely bidding adieu to each passenger, and Marcus corners her with an urgency he knows makes him look like a crazy person, but he doesn’t care. “The lady who was upstairs with me,” he demands. “Did you see where she went? Did she already go to baggage claim?”

“Oh no,” says Harper. “She didn’t check a bag. She just had a little suitcase; I put it in one of the overheads for her.”

“So she’s gone?”

“I think so, yes.” She looks at him quizzically, and it’s a mark of how highly Maya must have spoken of him that she seems more interested in his distress than in the line of grouchy coach passengers he’s holding up.

“Can you tell me her name?”

“I’m not allowed to give that out,” she says, “I’m so sorry,” and it’s clear that she is, and also that she has a somewhat romantic soul, because while she clearly has no idea they watched each other jerk off together last night, she’s definitely starting to put together at least some of the pieces. “She’s here for that big conference,” Harper says finally, in a low voice like she’s already said too much. “That’s all I know.”

“Thank you,” says Marcus, and takes off running.

But it’s useless.

She’s gone.

*** * * * * ***

Marcus collects his bag and exits into the early dawn without any sign of the woman in the black dress. The _Post_ sent a car for him, with a driver who is polite but mercifully uninterested in chitchat. Marcus’ Japanese is decent - better than his Russian, not as good as his Arabic - but he’s not in the mood to talk to a stranger right now. He raises the partition window, leans back against the comfortable leather seat, pulls a pack of tissues out of his pocket, and silently unzips his jeans.

_Red lips wrapped around his cock as he grips that damp brown braid in his fist and tugs, urging her to take him deeper._

_Slim, toned thighs straddling him in that airplane seat, those perfect tits bouncing as she rides his lap._

_Soft, breathy moans, warm and sweet in his ear._

He comes quietly, his face in the rearview mirror giving away nothing, but it isn’t enough. It takes the edge off, just barely, but he’s still not sated.

He wants to fuck her. He wants to see her masturbate again. He wants to watch her drink black coffee wearing nothing but his button-down shirt. He wants to wander Tokyo with her and buy her lunch at his favorite hole-in-the-wall ramen place and teach her how to play pachinko and take her to Kappabashi Street, where they sell all the plastic food restaurants use here instead of menu photos. He wants to show her the whole city and watch her eyes light up because he knows she'll be one of those people who just _gets_ Tokyo, and then he wants to take her out for late-night, post-sex ramen in the East Village and laugh as she complains about how it no longer measures up once you've had the real thing.

_Fuck me_ , he thinks to himself, as he stares out the window and watches the just-waking city roll slowly by. _I’m in so much trouble._

* * *

  **Part IV. _The Tokyo Ritz-Carlton_**

He is perfectly happy to have missed the kickoff gala, and he’d planned to make Thursday and Friday fairly light days too; the big fancy keynote speaker (which he promised Charmaine he’d research but hasn’t yet, oops) isn't until Saturday. But Harper told him she was here for TEDGlobal too, which means the chances of finding her are better if he’s at the convention center 24/7.

But he doesn’t see her on Thursday, and he doesn’t see her on Friday, and when he finally does lay eyes on her again it’s in absolutely the last place he would possibly have expected.

The brown-haired sex goddess isn’t just here to attend the conference.

The brown-haired sex goddess _is_ the conference.

*** * * * * ***

“Marcus!” says Congressman Jaha, seizing his arm and dragging him away from the hotel bar. “Come here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Actually, I’m looking for -” he begins, a note of protest in his voice, but it dies in his throat as the other man drags him through the crowd and comes to a halt in front of a cluster of chattering people. “You,” he finishes, a little breathlessly, voice low and stunned. “I was looking for you.”

“I’m sure you were,” she says, eyes sparkling up at him. She’s wearing a silvery-green evening dress, hair loose around her shoulders, and she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“This is Dr. Abigail Griffin of Doctors Without Borders,” says Jaha.

“Yes,” says Marcus. “I saw her keynote this morning.”

“Oh. Have you two met?”

“Not officially,” says the brown-haired sex goddess, smiling, extending her hand to Marcus _(the hand she fucked herself with, the hand that was inside her cunt, the hand she used to wipe his cum off the shower wall and lick her finger clean in front of him)._ “We’ve crossed paths but not been properly introduced.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Griffin.”

“Abby, please.”

“Abby. I’m Marcus Kane.”

“Oh!" she exclaims. "From the _Washington Post_." He’s unreasonably delighted that she knows his name, and does a shitty job of hiding it. "We're supposed to have an interview, aren't we? You were on my press list."

“You’ve probably had people telling you all day how insanely brilliant you are,” he says, “and I'm sure you're sick of it, but I hope you have the patience for just a little bit more."

She laughs at this. “You can dress a doctor up in Issey Miyake and shove her onto a global stage, but she’s still a doctor,” she says dryly. “I’m just a girl from Massachusetts. All of this is very weird to me.” She turns to Jaha and extends her hand to him again rather pointedly. “So nice to meet you, Congressman,” she says, and it’s clearly a dismissal. “I think I’m going to try and carve out some time for Mr. Kane so he can make his print deadline.” She grins at Marcus. “Please allow me to selfishly use this interview as an excuse to leave a gala reception in my honor which feels entirely too fancy for me,” she says. “If you'd like to tell me how insanely brilliant I am, my schedule is free at the moment. Shall we go upstairs?”

*** * * * * ***

They’re entirely decorous as they make their way through the halls, Marcus keeping the press badge around his neck prominently visible to avoid raising the hackles of any of the army of security guards stationed discreetly through the building. He would have expected Dr. Griffin to have a PR person with her, but she seems deeply resistant to being “handled” like a celebrity, so perhaps it isn’t a surprise.

She’s very smooth, though; she greets and thanks everyone who stops to congratulate her, as though she’s in no hurry whatever, and her politely self-deprecating introduction of Marcus (“apparently the _Post_ thinks I’m interesting enough for a cover story, this poor man has no idea what tedium he’ll be in for once I get going on vaccination statistics”) is delivered so easily he almost starts to believe it herself. Her charm is casual and effortless, and no one they pass on their way to the private penthouse elevator would guess that they’d met before, or that they planned to do anything up in that suite more interesting than look at pie charts of statistics.

The security guard stationed at the bottom of the elevator scans them both before waving them inside the gold-and-mahogany door, and Abby’s facade doesn’t crack until it closes and they begin to glide upward.

“I can’t believe you found me,” she says, turning to him with a look of overwhelming relief on her face and taking both his hands in hers. “I didn’t mean to pull a Cinderella, it’s just that they sent a guy to meet me at the gate, and he just swept me right out some side exit to the car, I tried to wait for you but he wouldn’t let me -”

“I hunted for you everywhere, I asked the flight attendant but she couldn’t even tell me your name -”

“I was fully prepared to bribe Maya the desk agent with an entire pot of coffee to tell me who you were when I got back to New York, so I could find you. You do live in New York, don’t you? You’re not in Washington?”

“I’m a freelancer, I don’t work from the _Post_ ’s office. I live in New York. Do you?”

“When I’m not in Sierra Leone. I’m back and forth.”

“Highest maternal mortality rate in the world,” he says. She nods. “I knew the second I saw you that you were the sexiest woman I’d ever seen in my life,” he tells her frankly. “I had no idea you were also a fucking superhero.”

“I’m just a doctor,” she says simply, as the elevator opens into the elegant living room of a posh white-and-gold hotel suite. “I just do what any doctor would do.”

“I think you know that’s not true,” he says in a low voice, squeezing her hand in his until she looks back at him with something warm and inviting in her eyes.

“How open is your evening, Mr. Kane?"

“Entirely, Dr. Griffin."

“Good,” she says crisply, setting her evening bag down on the hall table. “I want to make sure we have plenty of time to do the interview properly. I like your work. You’re smart, and you’re perceptive, and you’re a very good writer. But we can’t talk about Sierra Leone right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because right now,” she says firmly, meeting his eyes with a direct, unapologetic gaze, “I really, _really_ need you to fuck me. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for the past three days.”

Marcus stares at her in blank astonishment - _will she ever cease to surprise him?_ \- as she steps out of her heels and makes her way down the hallway to the suite’s palatial bedroom. “I mean it,” she says over her shoulder as she steps inside, and he follows her wordlessly, yanking off his press badge and kicking off his shoes as he watches her remove her earrings. “I haven’t been able to stop. In bed, in the shower . . . in the dressing room of the convention center arena . . .”

“In the backseat of a luxury sedan driving through downtown Tokyo,” Marcus confesses, unbuttoning his shirt.

She laughs. “Naughty boy.”

“You got under my skin. I can’t stop thinking about you either.”

She turns her back to him, pulling her hair to the side. “Would you unzip me? I have to give this gown back to the designer tomorrow, and if I rip it off just to get your hands on me faster, I’ll be out like forty thousand dollars.”

“Only if I can kiss you first,” he says, voice low and raspy, crossing the room toward her in two long strides and taking her in his arms.

She kisses his mouth with the same unapologetic confidence with which she took him by the hand and led him upstairs, with which she delivered a speech without notes to an audience of 40,000 which has already been viewed on YouTube by 1.9 million people, with which she fucked herself on her fingers in that airline seat.

So Marcus Kane does something he’s never done before in his entire life.

He surrenders.

Marcus does not get topped much. (This is not to say he’s never been fucked in the ass, he absolutely definitely has, more than once, the last time not even that long ago. But even when he’s a bottom he’s not a _bottom,_ if you catch the drift. He’s still always the one calling the shots.)

But this woman, who is approximately half his size now that her stilettos are off, has him by the balls (both figuratively and, as the kissing heats up and her hands get playful, quite literally) and he already knows that he’s going to give her everything she wants. His wallet, his apartment, a plane ticket to Paris, all the money in his bank account, his undying loyalty forever. Or just his mouth and his hands and his dick, for one night. Whatever this is, she’ll be the one that decides it. Whatever she gives him, he’ll welcome, and whatever she wants, she can have. She’s owned him from the minute she sat down in front of him and crossed her legs.

“Dress,” she reminds him pointedly, eyes sparkling with amusement, when they finally pull away to catch their breath. “Get me out of this thing before I rip it off.”

“Can’t have that,” he says, sweeping her lovely hair over her shoulder to unfasten the clasp at the top of the zipper. “Think of the scandal. Since you went out of your way to wear Japanese designers.”

She looks up at him, eyebrow raised. “You really do your homework, Mr. Kane,” she remarks as he steps in closer to her body and slowly, slowly pulls down the zipper in the back of her dress, without taking his eyes off hers.

“Your dress for your talk was Tadashi Shoji,” he says. “That’s the kind of detail I’d be expected to include in an article, so I checked. And you said this one was Issey Miyake. Smart. Shows you’re a bridge-builder, not a thunder-stealer. I like it. That’s a real Michelle Obama power move.”

“Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not the Secretary General of the United Nations,” she quips, and he wants to hurl himself out the window because how dare she be this sexy and this impressive and this brilliant _and also funny?_

“I’ve gotten twelve new gray hairs in the time it’s taken you to unzip this dress,” she teases. “This isn’t your first time, is it? I’ve been operating under the assumption that once I handed you the keys you’d know your way around.”

Everything about this is so hot he thinks his dick might actually crash through the fabric of his pants.

It’s hot that she’s not afraid of her own age, that she makes breezy jokes about her gray hair instead of panicking that he’ll realize she isn’t nineteen.

It’s hot that she’s been _thinking_ about this, she’s imagined how he'd fuck her and decided he must be good.

It’s hot that she won’t stop giving him shit.

It’s hot that she’s not even the tiniest bit intimidated by him.

It’s hot that she wants to get out of this dress so bad that she’s getting impatient.

And then he finally works the zipper all the way down and the dress slides off her body like water over rock, and this time she really did dress for it.

Smoky gray satin, trimmed in black. Matching bra and panties. Pricey. La Perla, he thinks. The dresses were on loan from designers, but this belongs to her. Did she buy it here? No, she’s Dr. Abigail Griffin, headliner of the TEDGlobal Conference on international health, she has to be a _saint_ in public this week, she couldn’t risk getting caught shopping for a bra this wildly erotic. She must have packed it. This bra must have flown over the ocean with them, quietly tucked into that suitcase Harper stashed in the overhead compartment.

It’s hot that she packed such blatantly fuck-me lingerie to wear underneath her elegant dress in a room full of the global political elite, just to make herself feel good, even if no one was going to see it.

He’s very pleased it’s now getting the audience he deserves.

Marcus is also wearing his good underwear, though all of his underwear is good, he only wears Tom Ford and it’s a point of pride that he takes such good care of his delicates (and that he’s secure enough in his own masculinity to call them “delicates” out loud). Abby eyes them with gratifying interest as he unbuckles his belt and steps out of his trousers. He lets her lead him by the tie over to the massive velvet cloud of a bed and seat him on the edge so she can sink down to her knees in front of him.

“Unbutton your shirt,” she commands him, “but slowly. I like watching men take off their clothes.” Then she pulls aside the elastic waistband of his shorts and smiles happily as she lifts the now fully-erect cock to press it flat against his belly, giving it a gentle kiss as she watches him slowly undo each button and let the shirt drop to the floor. “Good boy,” she tells him, pulling his underwear off impatiently. “Best for last.” Now he’s fully naked, while she’s still clad in her satin lingerie, those world-class tits pushed even higher and closer together in this bra than the black one, and he wants to do absolutely sacrilegious things to them with his tongue and his hands and his dick. But he can’t just yet, because she’s sitting back on her heels and running her palms up his inner thighs and then she’s wrapping those perfect lips around the head of his cock and gives him one sweet, slow suck, just like he imagined, and Marcus shatters.

“You can do anything you want to me,” he groans, hands clutching wildly at her hair. “God, Abby, I want to fuck you so bad that ‘fuck’ isn’t even a strong enough word for it.”

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about getting a closer look at this beautiful thing,” she murmurs, fingers stroking up and down his shaft like she thinks his dick is a piece of art, like somehow she’s as entranced by it as he is by her tits, like she’s feeling the same kind of violent, soul-shaking _want, want, want_ that he’s feeling, though that hardly seems possible because he’s a regular human man and she’s some kind of otherworldly hybrid of Mother Teresa, Marie Curie and Helen of Troy.

Only it’s not just her face that could launch a thousand ships, he thinks as she leans forward to take him deeper into her mouth (and offer him an even better view of her cleavage). He’d go to war for those tits, too. And he hasn’t even seen her cunt yet, but fuck, when he does . . .

“I dreamed about this,” he whispers. “Your pretty mouth wrapped around my dick. Getting me hard enough to fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked.”

She tongues a slow circle around the flared head of his dick, kisses the tip, and pulls back to look up at him. “How do I deserve to be fucked, Marcus Kane?”

“As hard as you want,” he murmurs roughly. “As fast as you want. As long as you want. As much as you want. Your whole fucking life is about giving your entire self to other people. About taking care of everyone else.” He cups her jaw in his hands. “Use me, Abby,” he growls at her. “Take anything you want. Everything. Be selfish, be greedy. Make yourself come as many times as you can. Just once, let someone else take care of you. You can be Saint Abigail again tomorrow.”

Her face changes at this, the playful and seductive grin disappearing, replaced by something thoughtful and astonished and maybe just a little bit . . . impressed.

“Christ, you’re good,” she says softly. “I don’t know how you keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Seeing everything. Seeing _me.”_

“By morning twelve million people will have seen you, Abby. You’re here to be seen. The eyes of the entire world are on you.”

“That’s not the same and you know it.”

“No,” he says. “It’s not. It’s not the same. They don’t know you. They don’t see you. I see you. You’re a bad girl wearing a good girl’s skin and no one’s ever looked beneath the surface and given you what you really want.”

“I knew,” she murmurs, rising to her feet and letting her silk panties fall to the floor. “The moment I sat down across from you, I knew. I knew we were the same.”

“We are the same,” he agrees as his eyes rake hungrily over her cunt, visible to him for the first time, a neat triangle of silky brown hair over a mound that’s already damp and flushed and swollen for him. “We belong together.”

“You mean tonight?” she asks, raising her eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Or did you mean more than that?”

“Yes.”

She laughs. “You’ve only just met me,” she reminds him, as she pushes him playfully onto his back on her luxurious bed.

“I already know everything I need to know.”

“I think you’re letting your dick do your thinking for you.”

“Bold words from the woman fingering her own cunt under an airplane blanket while a total stranger was sleeping twelve feet away.”

“It does a lot of the thinking for me too,” she says wryly. “It certainly is right now.”

“Then give it whatever it wants,” says Marcus hoarsely, as he sinks back into the mountain of pillows and Abby’s naked body straddles his.

So she does.

She sinks down onto his thighs, behind his cock, which bumps lightly against her belly. She takes it in her hand and strokes it. “You told me I could be greedy,” she murmurs, smiling down at him, her soft brown hair falling loosely forward like a silk curtain over her face. “You promised I could have you however I want. Did you mean that?”

He nods wordlessly. He’d sell his soul if she asked him to.

She leans forward and gives his beard a gentle, almost affectionate caress. “If it’s too much,” she murmurs, “just tell me. But you were right about me, Marcus. I don’t usually let myself just take the things I want, but you make me feel like it’s okay. Just for tonight.”

“It’s impossible to believe that a woman like you doesn’t have the opportunity to have as much sex as she wants, however and whenever she wants it,” he tells her frankly, and it’s the first time Abby’s composure cracks a little.

“My husband passed away a few years ago,” she says very quietly, her hand’s gentle stroking motions slowing as she looks away. “There hasn’t really been anyone since. I kind of thought that part of me had . . . I don’t know. Dried up, maybe. That that part of me died when he did. I was trying to convince myself I was okay with it, with living like that forever, never finding another person who I could want in that same way again.” She looks back at him suddenly, smiling with a flicker of the old mischief. “And then one day I sat down in an airplane seat across from this outrageously sexy bearded Brooklyn hipster dad,” she says, “and all of a sudden the switch just flipped back on.”

“I live in Chelsea. And I’m not a dad.”

“Take the compliment, Marcus.”

“Oh, I do.”

“Did you know that your dick was hard when you were sleeping?” she asks, eyes twinkling with amusement. “I know you think I’m the one that started it, but technically it was all your fault. I don’t know what you were dreaming about on that plane but it must have been _quite_ stimulating. I couldn’t look away. And then I thought, ‘what if he’s thinking about _me,’_ and then I was thinking about _you,_ and then, well -”

“And then you had to fuck yourself right there in the seat across from me and torture me with listening to you come,” he growls as he grips her hips in his hands, causing her to give a startled and delighted squeak of laughter as he lifts her body up. “If I don’t get to hear that sound at least another three times tonight I’m going to be very disappointed.”

“Oh dear, we can’t have that,” she says primly, and then she rises onto her knees and suddenly he can feel the folds of her labia parting against the head of his cock.

Marcus Kane’s lovers have a tendency to be hesitant with his dick the first time. It’s very big, and very thick, and the flared ridge of its head - now flushed red, shiny with precum, and swollen tight - is unusually pronounced, so the first push in is a _lot._ He’s generous in bed, and he’s learned to work well with what he’s got, but it generally takes a little warming up before everyone’s comfortable enough for a really enjoyable fuck.

But Abby isn't fazed at all. She braces her knees on either side of his hips and sinks down onto him with a blissful exhale, already so wet that he glides smoothly inside with no friction or resistance, and the sound she makes contains such a strong echo of _oh, thank God_ that Marcus feels his whole body shudder with a pleasure that’s more than just the sensation of a hot cunt pulsing around his shaft.

It’s like . . . it’s like she’s been _craving_ him. Like her cunt is a living creature and it’s been starving, like the feeling of not having a cock inside her is a physical ache and he’s finally soothed it. She sinks down with no hesitation until the mound of her cunt is pressed against him and he can feel her soft damp hair brush against his own.

Her husband must have been big, too, he thinks, and then the image of Abby spending decades developing a taste for riding a huge dick as hard as she can makes his whole body shudder.

“Fuck,” he groans as she rocks her hips, hands braced on his chest. “Oh my God, you feel so good.”

“So do you,” she whispers, closing her eyes and arching her back as she moves on top of him. “I can’t believe I was too chicken to just walk over to you right off the bat and sit in your lap like I wanted to in the first place. We could have been doing this for three whole days.”

Marcus thinks about Abby riding his lap in that airline seat, tits bouncing as she shoves him back against the padded black leather. He thinks about pushing her up against the wall of that shower and entering her from behind, fucking her cunt until her juices have soaked his cock and then gliding into her ass. He thinks about her sitting beside him in that taxi cab and leaning over as the partition rises to leave a red-lipstick kiss on his flushed, swollen head.

“I think we should get married,” he announces. “I’m never going to run out of different ways I want to fuck you, and it might take the rest of our lives to get through them.”

Abby laughs at this, her entire face aglow with amused delight. “I think you’re even greedier than I am,” she teases. “Why don’t we take it one fuck at a time.”

Marcus places his hands over hers where they’re braced on his chest, and caresses them lightly with his fingertips. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Make yourself come, Abby. Make yourself feel good. Take everything you want.”

He feels her hands curve against his skin, fingers digging in so hard he’s surprised they don’t draw blood, and then he watches in something like stunned reverence as she finally lets go.

All that charm and composure - the precise focus of the woman on the plane reading in silence and ignoring every distraction, the impassioned charisma of the woman onstage making the case for nonprofit funding, the elegant poise of the woman in the Issey Miyake evening gown making the rounds to greet celebrities and billionaires and world leaders - all those other selves drop away, and suddenly she’s just _Abby,_ she’s just tangled brown hair and damp pink skin and panting breath and wide dark eyes staring down at him with something like wonder as she fucks him like he’s never been fucked before in his whole life.

It takes her hardly any time at all to come the first time, which is so hot he can hardly stand it. That she was this ready for him. That she knew exactly what she needed.

Marcus decided a few years ago he’d grown out of fucking anyone under thirty anymore - despite the inevitable barrage of propositions when he gives lectures for university journalism departments, or pays one of his handful of annual visits to _Post_ headquarters and gets spotted by starstruck interns. But Jesus, he’s forty-four, he’s a fucking adult, he knows what he wants in bed and he wants to be with people who know what _they_ want in bed so he doesn’t have to waste time working through layers and layers of performance - overly-theatrical moans, faked orgasms, rehearsed dirty talk - from someone who is more concerned about impressing him than about their own pleasure.

So it’s intoxicating to find himself entirely submissive to this petite, almost delicate-looking woman, who has taken over his entire body as though it belongs to her and is shuddering and gasping with an orgasm so powerful that her entire body turns pink from head to toe.

_“Fuck,”_ he groans, as her body slows on top of his. “I’m glad they bolt the beds to the floor here at the Ritz-Carlton, or I’d be worried we’d get a knock on the door from your super-scary armed elevator friend.”

“Oh, Gustus?” She waves this off dismissively. “He’s former Secret Service. Some kind of black ops before, I think, though I’m probably not supposed to know that. Don’t worry, he only cares about things like bomb threats, not policing access to my vagina. We’re fine.” She sinks down against his chest, sighing happily as his arms wrap around her back. She’s so much smaller than him that she can’t keep his cock all the way inside her at this angle, but when he lifts his hips to push in an inch or so deeper she gives a pleased little moan, so he takes that as permission to take a slightly more active role this round. He cradles her body against him, greedily savoring the scent of her skin and hair, the hard press of her nipples brushing his chest, the way her hands slide up and down the powerful muscles of his arms, and lets his hips rise and fall at a leisurely pace. They sink into a rhythm that makes time stop, so Marcus has no idea how long it takes before she comes the second time, it could be hours or minutes, but this orgasm is lighter than the first, soft and sweet, and she nuzzles into his bare chest as his cock plunges smoothly in and out of her, fluttering gasping moans muffled by his sweat-sheened skin.

“Mmmmm,” she sighs happily as the desperate pulsing of her muscles slows and subsides, and she melts into his body with perfect contentment. “God, you’re good.”

“Maybe you’re just easily impressed,” he quips lightly. “I haven’t done much so far except show up.”

Abby laughs. “Oh, I see. You feel like I’m not giving you enough of a chance to really highlight all your moves.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, it’s okay. Give me your moves. I want to see them. I’ll be a very appreciative audience.”

“Well, I don’t want to feel like you’re grading on a curve or anything.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“I mean a man wants to be evaluated on his own merits.”

“Of course he does,” Abby agrees reassuringly, giving his head a little pat, causing Marcus to let loose a low, impatient growl and flip her onto her back with such force that the entire mattress bounces. She lands with a startled squeak of a giggle and continues laughing at the grumpy look on his face (its effect largely ruined by the flash of playful mischief in his eyes).

“All right, that’s it,” he says, gripping her elegant dancers’ legs _(fuck, those legs, he still can't believe he finally gets to touch them, lick them, kiss them, feel them wrap around his body)_ in his powerful hands and draping them over his shoulders. “You wanted my moves, you’re getting my moves.”

“All right, Mr. Kane,” says Abby as he lowers his mouth to her cunt. “Go ahead and impress me.”

Her hands tangle in his hair, carding through the thick locks and wrapping them around her fingertips, tugging him down to where she wants him to go, and he knows he left her in control but he wants to be greedy for a minute, too. Because he didn’t get a good look on the plane, and the tantalizing mystery of her cunt has taunted him for days, ruining all attempts at sleep.

_What would the hair look like?_

A lush, neat triangle, the same silky chestnut-brown as the waves spilled out across the crisp white pillowcase. Not artificially bare, like a fucking Barbie doll, and not overly-sculpted, like those performative younger lovers who no longer interest him. Just tidy and elegant. A woman who likes to wear a bikini from time to time and doesn’t want to stress about it, but also finds draconian beauty standards exhausting and can’t be bothered to maintain a full brazilian from week to week.

_What would he see when he opened those soft outer folds?_

Ripples of liquid pink satin, parting to unveil the plump, swollen little pearl of her clit. Soft, trembling flesh, meltingly wet, and at the center of her, the dark shadow of her opening, still glistening from two orgasms and all the impatient waiting which preceded them.  
_  
What would he smell and taste and feel?_

A sharp tang, like saltwater, but richer. Not metallic like blood, but something as deep and ancient as the sea. Her thick, warm juices coat his beard, making him feel shiveringly, delectably dirty. He licks his way up to the mound of her pubic bone, and kisses the heartbeat hammering violently under his tongue.

_What sounds would she make?_

Her cries are higher, sharper, against his mouth than his cock, and from the way she gasps in shock and then squirms impatiently to capture more, he guesses her husband was clean-shaven. The beard thing's new, and she _definitely_ likes it. He smiles as he licks his way back down her center, teasing her entrance with his tongue before wrapping his lips around her clit and sucking gently. Abby's breathing accelerates until she’s very nearly hyperventilating, fingers clutching frantically at his hair as though to order him, _don’t you dare stop._

_Oh, don’t worry,_ he thinks to himself as he lets his tongue circle her clit again and again, stirring the nerve endings all around it and torturing her with pleasure. _I’m not going anywhere._

And he doesn’t forget about those legs, either, he’s been waiting too long to get his hands on them to neglect them now. His hands caress her thighs, feeling the power of the taut muscles contained beneath the sleek, creamy flesh. She could hold herself up with these legs wrapped around him, if he fucked her against the wall. She could lock his body over hers, heels digging into his back, and trap him there forever in her grip, and honestly he kind of hopes she does.

“Harder, baby,” she whimpers, back arching to lift her cunt further into his mouth. “Please, oh please, I need -”

“I know,” he murmurs, nosing deeper into the trembling rose-petal folds of her labia. “I know. I know what you need, Abby.”

“I believe you,” she whispers, through ragged, gasping breaths. “It’s insane that I should, after one night, but I do.”

And he does know, so he gives it to her, over and over. She needs fingers digging into her thighs so deep they’ll leave marks, she needs firm, aggressive licks up her seam, she needs the light sting of teeth on her soft outer labia, she needs his tongue fucking her entrance as fiercely as his cock did, she needs him to suck on her clit so hard it feels like he’s trying to drink her entire body up, she needs his beard everywhere, she needs him grunting and growling with his own pleasure as the taste of her cunt makes his cock throb against the mattress.

She comes with a cry that’s nearly a scream, wetness rushing over his lips and tongue, but he doesn’t stop until a second orgasm has followed the first. He might have tried for a third if he couldn’t tell, from her desperate wriggling movements, that she’s too sensitive for more of this right now. So he leaves her with one slow, soft kiss against her clit, and lets her yank him back up to the top of the bed by fistfuls of his hair so she can seize his sticky mouth with her own.

“Okay,” she says breathlessly as his body collapses onto hers. “Very impressive.”

He chuckles at this, the sound muffled by warm sweat-sheened skin as his lips graze her throat. “Well, I’ve had three days to plan it out,” he says. “So I arrived prepared.”

“I like that about you,” she says, sliding one hand up his spine to caress his hair, and then, almost as though the words tumble out unbidden, as though she hadn’t meant to say it, she adds in a low voice, “I like _everything_ about you.”

“Me too,” he whispers, rising onto his forearms to brace himself over her, meeting those dark eyes with his own, letting her soft rosy lips nibble and lick eagerly at his.

“I don’t have anything on my schedule for tomorrow except press conferences,” she says, “for which I’m sitting behind a table the entire time.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “The significance of which is . . .”

She tugs him by the hair down to meet her mouth, licking into him so hard that her tongue collides with his. When she pulls away, her eyes are dark and wild. “Give it to me so hard I can’t walk tomorrow,” she whispers urgently. “I mean it. Harder than you’ve ever fucked before.”

“Christ,” he murmurs, awestruck, eyes wide and stunned. “Where have you _been_ all my life?”

“Married and raising a kid on the Upper East Side.”

“Oh, right.” He kisses her again. “Well, thank God I finally found you.”

Will you?” she murmurs, eyes gazing up at him, pleading. “Do you promise? As hard as you can?”

“I told you I’d give you anything you wanted,” he says, sliding one arm beneath her slim white neck to pillow her head in the crook of his arm, and the other over her hip to clutch at the taut curve of her ass, cradling her tightly as his achingly hard dick pushes her labia apart and glides wetly inside.

He bottoms out in her and holds still there for a moment, clutching her soft sweet body against his own, her skin hot and silky and damp with sweat, and he closes his eyes, and he forgets everything he’s ever taught himself about using his huge cock gently, with precision and care, and he just . . . . lets go.

“Yes, yes, _yes,”_ he hears her gasp eagerly as his hips begin to hammer frantically at hers, the palm of his hand against the curve of her ass holding her in place. “That’s perfect, that’s _perfect,_ just like that, baby, more, just like that . . .”

“Oh God, Abby . . .”

“God, you’re so good, I knew you would feel so good, _fuck,_ Marcus, I wanted you so much . . .”

And she wasn’t lying, she wasn’t exaggerating, she really does want him as hard as his body will go, because when he pounds into her like he’s pinning her to the mattress, she cries _“yes,”_ and when he slams into her so hard the bedside table rattles, she cries _“yes,”_ and when his hips pick up so much speed that the obscenely rapid smack of skin on skin is loud enough to be heard down the hall, she comes twice, right in a row, and _still_ doesn’t let him stop.

“Fill me,” she whispers, trembling in his arms, clutching his tousled damp hair as he sucks rough hard kisses into her skin. “Come in me, baby. Let me watch you come again.” And she tugs his face back up to hers, fingers sliding down to gently caress his jaw, and holds his gaze with her own.

“I want to go slow,” he says, voice hoarse and rough with desperation. “I want to feel everything.”

“Go slow, then, baby,” she says warmly, smiling up at him, cradling his face, and his body slows to the pace of a heartbeat, moving on top of hers, and he feels pressure begin to build inside him, a knot of fire coalescing at the base of his spine, spreading outward, and his cock begins to leap and twitch and tremble deep inside her cunt, making her smile even wider and more dazzling, and then he feels the force of it take over his entire body as the pressure suddenly and abruptly releases and he’s filling her and filling her and filling her as she glows up at him with delight, and no one has ever looked at him like this when he was coming inside them before, like his pleasure brings her pleasure all on its own.

No one has ever looked at him like this, in his whole life.

“No, stay here, stay here,” she protests, as he slowly, shakily moves to roll off her. “Stay inside me. Just a little longer.”

“Physics and biology aren’t really on your side here,” he murmurs wryly, leaning down to kiss her mouth, and she gives a little pout.

“How much not on my side?” she asks. “Like what’s the recovery window here?”

“Seriously?” he asks, laughing. “You’re already planning more? Do you _want_ to be sore tomorrow?”

“No, I’m just greedy.”

“We do actually, at some point, have to do the interview,” he points out.

“Well, it’s not like anyone will be able to tell from your questions whether or not your cock was inside me when you asked them.”

“They’ll be able to tell from the audio recording.”

“That should make things a little more interesting for your transcriptionist.”

“I think that counts as sexually harassing my transcriptionist.”

Abby laughs at this, sinking back against the heap of pillows, and gives a soft little sigh as his now-spent cock slides wetly out of her. Marcus lets his body settle on top of hers and presses a soft kiss against her mouth.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he murmurs, “I’d fuck you all night without stopping if my body would let me.”

“It does, thank you.”

“Though I can’t help noticing that your eyelids are fluttering a little bit, and you seem very comfortable there on those pillows, so I’m beginning to suspect you might have oversold your own capacity to go another round before bed.”

“Hey now,” she mumbles drowsily, curling up into the warmth of his body. “I could go another round if I wanted to.”

“Sure you could.”

“The only reason we’re not is because _you_ can’t go another round.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“You’re patronizing me.”

“Your eyes are completely closed, Abby.”

“No, they’re not.”

Marcus kisses her and sinks down into the pillows, cradling her body against his. “Interview in the morning, sex after,” he says. “Rest now.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do,” Abby murmurs sleepily, and within moments she’s fast asleep in his arms.

* * *

**Part V. _International Exhibition Center, Tokyo Waterfront City_  
**

But there’s no time in the morning for the second part of the plan, only the first.

They do the interview over a lavish room service breakfast, and even in a hotel bathrobe with wet hair and a Danish in her hand, Abigail Griffin is the most articulate, charismatic woman he’s ever met. They finish with an hour and fifteen minutes left before she’s scheduled to be in the press room, and Marcus has just tugged open the belt of her robe and sunk down to his knees between her spread thighs on the sofa when the phone rings, and suddenly she has to go be Doctor Griffin, World Hero again.

So instead of pulling her down onto his lap and letting her ride him in a leisurely fashion for the next hour, the way he’d wanted to, he settles for nuzzling so deep and hard into her cunt that she comes in less than three minutes.

Then she insists that he sit on the edge of the bed and let her watch him jerk himself off again while she gets dressed and does her hair, which might be the most insanely erotic thing a woman has ever asked him to do, though it’s also a practical necessity; he’d never make it out of the room with the massive erection he’s been walking around with all morning.

She pauses in the middle of applying her makeup to watch him come with a long, low groan into a white hand towel embroidered with the logo of the Ritz-Carlton, and then ten minutes later they’re out the door.

*** * * * * ***

He can’t get near her at the press conference. She’s brilliant and passionate and dazzling, the entire room is captivated by her, and she answers every question - even the stupid ones - with grace and conviction.

He can’t take his eyes off her.

The room is huge, and he can’t tell if she sees him, way off to the side as he is. But she knows he’s there, at least.

_Look at me,_ he thinks, every time someone near him raises their hand and the press rep calls on them for a question. _Please look at me. Just so I know that you know I’m still thinking about the way your cunt tastes and the way your hands feel in my hair and the way you sound when you come._

But she doesn’t look at him, and in the end it’s almost a relief. He’s not sure he could hold himself together if she did.

Then the press rep stands, thanks everyone for attending, sweeps Abby out through a side door, and it’s all over.

*** * * * * ***

It doesn’t occur to Marcus until he’s in the taxi on the way back to his hotel that he doesn’t have her phone number, and she doesn’t have his.

_God fucking dammit._

He’s as screwed as he was when he lost her getting off the plane.

* * *

  **Part VI. _Singapore Airlines Flight 1121, Tokyo to New York_**

Everyone in the entire world, it seems, is departing Tokyo today; the official conference events ended this morning, the closing panel was after the press conference, and the remainder of specialized panels throughout the rest of today and tomorrow are small, and not worth bothering about, so the airport is an absolute madhouse. He’s amused and pleased to discover, when he checks in, that Maya upgraded him both ways. The desk agent hands him a ticket marked First Class without even blinking an eye at his battered and decidedly un-fancy leather carry-on bag.

He looks around the crowded terminal, but there's no Abby.

No Abby in line at security.

No Abby in the First Class lounge, a perk he didn’t get to enjoy last time, but _she_ did, so if there’s any chance she’s on his flight . . .

But she isn’t.

He looks around at the gate, he scans the plane frantically as he boards (she wouldn’t be in coach, but _maybe_ she’s in coach???), and he looks up with a start at the sound of every pair of footsteps on the narrow metal steps up to the First Class cabin.

So fucking many people, but none of them are her.

He tries not to mind it. It was a long shot, after all. She could be staying a few extra days, she could be flying out of a different airport, she could be getting a ride back on some corporate sponsor’s swanky private jet.

Well, when he gets back to New York, at the very least he can call the hospital where she -

_Fuck,_ no he can’t, she never told him the name.

About the only place he knows where to find her is Sierra Leone.

He’s scrolling through Google Search results on his phone, attempting to find anything resembling personal contact information, when they get the announcement.

Mechanical difficulties. Something that came up in the pre-flight check, just as they were closing the doors.

Delayed, _again._

Marcus feels like he’s in _Groundhog Day,_ although at least now he gets to wait in a comfortable First Class seat with unlimited free beer.

After three IPA’s in forty-five minutes, he starts to get drowsy, and he’s fading in and out of consciousness when he starts to hear the commotion. Voices, lots of shouting, and the rumble of footsteps down below in coach.

Well, it’s nothing to do with him, he reasons, or they’d come wake him up. And since none of the voices are Abby’s, he doesn’t much care.

He sleeps on and off for a little while before he feels a gentle shake of his shoulder.

He starts awake with a jerk . . . but it’s not her.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” says the attendant. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t miss the other flight.”

“The what?” he asks blearily, looking around, and suddenly realizes the cabin has emptied out.

“We’re grounded here for another hour at least,” she says. “There’s a nonstop to Newark boarding right now at the next gate over; we re-ticketed everyone who didn’t want to wait.”

Marcus has no interest in hauling his ass home from Newark.

“This plane is definitely going to New York, right?” he asks. “I mean, you’re fixing the thing, but at some point tonight, it’s going to take off.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And it’s a direct flight, so I don’t have to worry about making a layover somewhere else.”

“No, sir.”

“Then I’m going back to sleep. Wake me up when we land at JFK.”

“Yes, sir.”

He leans back and closes his eyes, then snaps back up again. “Wait,” he demands. “The other flight. Did you move everyone from first class here into first class there?”

“Most of them. Some got moved downstairs to business class and they just got a voucher. There wasn’t room for everyone. They already had half a dozen people booked in first class.”

He almost asks. It would be so easy. He could make it sound natural. _A friend of mine was leaving today, we just missed each other . . . wondering if I should switch if she’s on that one . . ._

But no, he tried this before, even Harper wouldn’t tell him anything. This one doesn’t even know him, and she won’t have a manifest for a flight she’s not on anyway.

There’s nothing he can do.

So he just thanks her, and goes back to sleep.

*** * * * *  
**

He’s still sleeping when the doors close, and he’s still sleeping when the plane takes off, and he’s still sleeping when it hits altitude, and he’s still sleeping when the attendant comes up for the beverage service, and he’s still sleeping when she disappears back down the stairs again, leaving him in cool blue darkness as they soar through the night sky.

He’s still sleeping when a pair of slender legs straddle his thighs and a soft mouth brushes against his own, startling him awake.

“Hi,” says Abby, smiling. “I’m sorry I was late.”

He stares at her, blinking in confusion. “You’re here,” he whispers, a little stupidly. “I thought . . .”

“Did you give up on me?”

“Pretty much.”

“I was on the flight to Newark when they boarded everyone from here. Someone mentioned that all of first class had switched except one snoring guy with a beard. So I took a chance.”

“Switching from the on-time flight to the indefinitely delayed one.”

“I’ll admit it took some convincing.” She leans down to kiss his mouth. “But you never gave me your phone number, you asshole,” she says, stroking his hair. “So what the hell was I supposed to do, _not_ hunt you down in every plane in the Tokyo airport?”

Marcus doesn’t answer, swallowing hard as her hands move down to find his belt buckle, and within seconds his cock is in her hands. “I wanted to fuck you like this last time, and I didn’t get to,” she murmurs. “Am I allowed to be greedy again? Am I allowed to just take what I want?”

“With me?” he whispers hoarsely. “Always.”

“What do _you_ want, Marcus?”

“I want you to unbutton your shirt,” he says in a low voice, as she tugs her skirt up above her ass and pulls aside the delicate pink lace of her thong. “I want to watch your tits bounce.”

“I want to feel your mouth on them,” she murmurs, as she obeys, unfastening the buttons of her silk blouse and the front clasp of her bra, letting those perfect breasts tumble free, and as she lifts her hips to sink down onto his cock she presses him back against the padded leather seat, leaning forward enough to let one pert little nipple brush his lower lip. Marcus opens his mouth and takes as much of the soft white flesh inside it as he can hold, laving the pebbled aureola with his tongue, roughing the delicate skin with his beard, savoring her shudders of pleasure, the way her hand in his hair holds him in place, cradling him against her breast as he pushes inside.

“Right there, baby,” she sighs blissfully, and he doesn’t know if she means his dick or his mouth, so he just stays where he is and lets her guide him, rocking against his body and biting back moans of pleasure as his lips purse around her nipple and suck as hard as they can.

They move against each other like that for a long, long time, quiet and deep and slow, before he feels her hips begin to pick up speed, hands drifting from his hair to grip his shoulders, back arching, and he opens his eyes and there it is, the sight he wanted to see, and _fuck,_ it’s heaven - two full, perfect tits bouncing right in front of him as her body moves up and down on his cock.

He drinks them in with a greedy gaze as she rides him, fast and hard and urgent, until she comes.

“You have to marry me,” he tells her as she collapses against him, “because I want to fuck those tits so badly my dick aches and there’s absolutely no logistical way to do that on a plane.”

Abby laughs. “That’s the most forthright proposal I’ve ever gotten.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“I know you aren’t.” She leans down and kisses him, fingers clutching at his jaw. “I feel it too,” she murmurs. “This thing between us. This insane, electric thing. It’s not just you. I was so turned on at the press conference I couldn’t even _look_ at you, I was so wet, Marcus, I could hardly sit still . . .”

“And did you sneak off to the ladies’ room to take care of it right afterwards?” he teases, but his eyes widen when she bites her lip and nods. “Naughty,” he whispers, letting his tongue flick lightly at her nipples, making her arch her back and gasp. “Did you make yourself come, and think about me?”

“I thought about you just like this,” she says, hips beginning to rock against his again, and he groans as she sinks down and takes him all the way inside.

She gives a long, slow, ragged exhale as her body melts into his, until she’s fully seated on his cock. He can feel her juices, thick and warm as honey, coating his skin, a decadent vulgar smear across the flesh of his balls and his lower belly. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever felt in his life, and every movement of her hips just brings more and more.

He curses his clothes, her clothes, this chair, its armrests, the low arc of the ceiling over his head, everything that’s keeping him from being as naked and expansive and wild with her as he wants to be.

They really shouldn’t have wasted any of their time in that Ritz-Carlton bed on sleep.

“Have you done this before?” she whispers to him, hands clutching at his hair to hold him against her breasts, shivering with pleasure as he gives one of them a sharp, teasing little bite.

“With someone else? No.”

She laughs at this, a little breathlessly, hips rolling hard and deep against his. “Me either,” she whispers. “It never even occurred to me until I met you. Now all I want is to travel the whole world with you, fucking on different planes.”

“It’ll be harder next time,” he cautions her a little wryly. “This is the first time I’ve ever flown first class.”

“Me too,” she admits, grinning. “We’d better take full advantage of it.”

He slides his hands roughly up her thighs to cup the smooth, toned curves of her ass. “I think we’re doing pretty well so far.”

“I’d say so,” she murmurs, leaning down to kiss him, pressing him back against the seat, and then it’s nothing but panting breath and warm wet mouths and soft sighs and skin meeting skin and the creak of artificial leather, for so long that Marcus thinks he can feel time stop, like he’s died and gone to heaven and it's just endlessly reliving this one perfect moment for all of eternity, as he feels his orgasm begin to build low and hot at the base of his spine and sizzle upwards, expanding to consume his entire body. He could live forever in this moment, just before the rollercoaster reaches the top, his climax rising and rising and rising, the pressure of it so vast his entire body feels simultaneously weighted and weightless, pulled in a thousand directions, as Abby Griffin smiles down at him, a masterpiece of soft hair and soft breasts and soft skin and soft cunt, everything soft, everything warm, and yet somehow not delicate or fragile at all, and she holds him there, suspended for an eternity just on the verge of eruption, and then murmurs, “is it crazy that I already think I love you?”, and his entire body falls apart.

It’s only because she’s quick enough to kiss him, to press her mouth hard and rough against his and capture his desperate, almost pained cry, that they aren’t heard all the way downstairs. Marcus comes and comes, his entire body trembling, electricity running through his veins, like someone has detonated an entire Fourth of July’s worth of fireworks in the center of his blown-open chest. Abby cradles him, swallows his frantic cries with her hungry kisses, caresses his hair, pets him, soothes him, and murmurs a gentle “that’s it, baby, just let it all go, let me have all of it” into his ear which causes his cock to shudder out another burst of cum deep into her cunt, after he’d already thought he was spent.

_“Fuck,”_ he gasps into her throat as she pulls him back to her in a gentle embrace. “Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck.”_

“You gave me what I needed, last time,” she whispers to him, fingers tangling in his dark curls as she holds him close. “But I know what you need, too.”

“Say it again,” he breathes, as the last aftershocks of his orgasm recede and leave him dazed, sated, drowsy, intoxicated with bliss.

“I think I love you,” she says, smiling. “But we can talk about it later.”

“Abby –"

“You’re already falling asleep, baby,” she teases him, as his dark eyelashes begin fluttering. “I’ll clean up. I’ll take care of you. Just close your eyes.”

So he does.

He feels the delicious weight of sleep close over his head like he’s sinking into a dark ocean, his entire body more relaxed than he can remember in years.

*** * * * * ***

When he wakes, the sun is shining, and she’s gone.

He sits bolt upright, staring around him wildly, rubbing his eyes.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Did he – was it all just a –

_Fuck._

He doesn’t see her luggage anywhere. There’s no trace of her. His jeans are buckled and zipped, even his seatbelt fastened.

Marcus knows it’s stupid and possibly a little childish but he thinks he might actually cry.

_You’re so pathetic,_ he tells himself, scrubbing his hands wearily over his face. _Not enough just to have a sex dream about a woman you’re never going to see again fucking you on a plane, but you have to pretend she’s in love with you, too. Jesus, you’re such a cliché._

And now he’s back to square one.

Can he track her down in Manhattan? Can he Google her and find out where she works? Can he just . . . show up at the hospital and ask for her, does it work like that? What if she’s just there for a day or so and then she’s back to Sierra Leone? Should he even bother, since she didn’t give him her number, she didn’t try to find him afterwards, she just got on a plane and went home? Isn’t that kind of a sign?

“Morning, Mr. Kane,” says the bright young voice of the flight attendant, yanking him forcibly out of his misery as she ascends the staircase with a metal tray. “Are you and your wife ready for breakfast?”

He turns to stare at her, eyes wide, blinking stupidly. “My who what?”

She blushes immediately, misinterpreting his confusion. “Oh God, I’m so sorry," she amends hastily, "I just assumed. The woman traveling with you. She was about to take a shower when I came up to check on you both a few minutes ago, but you were still asleep.”

Marcus is so elated he would like to throw his arms around her, but refrains, suppressing his jubilation. “Breakfast would be great,” he says. “Thank you. My . . . wife will have some too.”

Because, what the hell.

“Great,” she says, hugely relieved not to have made a tactless faux pas, and unfolds a metal tray on the seat next to Marcus, where he can see, now that he’s shaken off the bleariness of sleep and is actually paying attention, that the seatbelt is unfastened and the seat back reclined and a blanket and pillow have fallen to the floor.

She slept here all night, beside him.

He didn’t dream it.

And right now, she is wet and naked and fifteen feet away.

“Coffee?” asks the flight attendant.

Marcus thinks about the prospect of her darting up the stairs every ten minutes, diligently checking on them for refills. “Yes please,” he says, “but leave the whole carafe.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you,” he says, beaming at her, perhaps a little crazily, but he has nowhere else to direct the full force of his overwhelming, giddy joy, and she smiles back.

“I’ll be back to get your trays and check on you a little later.”

“No rush,” says Marcus, a little too quickly, and the flight attendant’s smile turns wry and knowing.

“Gotcha,” she says. “I’ll see you in an hour. If you’re, you know. Planning to . . . take a shower before breakfast.”

Then she disappears down the stairs, and even the fact that he can hear her lightly snickering and the knowledge that she knows exactly what he’s about to do doesn’t stop him from doing it.

“Good morning,” he says to the slight, perfectly curved silhouette on the other side of the shower stall’s frosted glass, as he kicks off his shoes and unzips his jeans.

“Good morning,” Abby’s voice chimes brightly back at him, echoing off the metal and glass walls. “We’re married, apparently.”

“Yeah, I think I heard that somewhere.”

“Is there coffee?”

“Lots.”

“Is it in a carafe so it will stay hot?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she says. “Get in here.”

She’s already pink and clean by the time he steps inside, surrounded by rose-scented steam, and she lathers up her washcloth to bathe his whole body for him - a decadent, almost medieval sensation. When she gets on her knees to run the washcloth up his thighs, he gasps as she trails steaming water all over his most sensitive flesh, sponging off the final traces of last night. And she can’t resist dropping a few hot little kisses up the shaft of his cock as she lifts it against his belly. “Fuck,” he groans, head thudding back against the wall, as she delicately takes one of his balls into her mouth and suckling lightly before rising back up to her feet. “Evil,” he growls as he seizes her in his arms, backing her against the steamy glass, causing her to laugh breathlessly.

“Practical,” she retorts, “you weren’t hard enough yet and I had to move things along. I need coffee.”

Marcus grips her ass, lifts one slim thigh to open her up to him, and pushes all the way inside with one brutal thrust. “Hard enough now?”

“Perfect,” she gasps, looping her arms around his neck to steady herself. “Perfect. Don’t stop. Just like that, until I come.”

The tiny part of Marcus’ brain that can still think clearly is awestruck, and a little intimidated, by her sheer strength. He dwarfs her in size, yet she soaks up his powerful thrusts like they're nothing. He slams her up against the wall, cock driving up and up, so hard that he half-expects her to cry out in pain, to say “stop,” to tell him he’s too much, the way lovers always seem to find him too much, the way there’s always a ceiling on how hard he can let himself go, the way he’s always, always holding himself in check, so no one gets hurt.

But it’s like this woman is fucking _indestructible._ He’s hammering into her with his full strength, every muscle firing like pistons throughout his whole body, a huge fierce animal with heat radiating off him in waves, he’s throwing his entire self at her, and she just _takes_ it, absorbs it, gazes up at him in utter bliss, eyes silently begging for more. So he finds it and gives it to her, he digs up “more” from places deep in his body he didn’t even know existed, so much more he has to move them against the metal bulkhead wall instead of the glass door because he isn’t sure the frame can take it. He fucks her and fucks her and fucks her, cock driving in so hard that her feet lift off the tiled floor, until he feels her cunt begin to clutch wildly at him and she tugs his face down to hers and kisses him roughly to muffle her own screams.

When the fluttering spasms of her inner muscles around his cock begin to slow, he lowers her back down and holds her in his arms while she steadies herself.

“It’s funny,” she murmurs, “it was so good with you the first time that I thought, ‘God, maybe it would be a mistake to do it again,’ like maybe nothing could ever live up to that one perfect night in Tokyo and if we tried to find it again it would just be depressing. But then when I found you again on the plane, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop myself, and then it was even better. And now . . .” She kisses his mouth, soft and sweet and light. “I don’t know how it’s possible that it just keeps getting better every time.”

“Practice makes perfect,” says Marcus, hiding behind a flippant tone to conceal the fact that he doesn’t know how it’s possible either but it’s absolutely true.

“Ah,” grins Abby, “so you’re saying I need to test your improvisational skills. So I know what I’m getting into.”

Then she turns around to press her breasts against the metal wall, widening her stance and letting her hips angle back towards him.

Marcus swallows hard, his cock throbbing so hard it hurts, soaked in Abby’s orgasm and pulsing between his thighs like a living creature. "What are you doing?"

“Throwing you a curve ball. Don’t worry. I got you good and wet, and this isn’t exactly my first time at the rodeo. I can take it.”

_“Abby,”_ he chokes out.

“Please, baby,” she whispers. “It’s been such a long time.”

So he steps in close to her, buries his mouth in the back of her neck, and grits his teeth to choke back a cry of stunned pleasure as the head of his cock slowly pushes into her ass.

She’s desperately tight, but his cock is so wet from the juices of her cunt that the pressure doesn’t seem to bring her any pain, only pleasure. It’s clear from her blissful exhales, the way she obediently widens her stance to open up deeper for him, that she wasn’t exaggerating even a little; her whole body is trembling with pleasure, a dreamy smile teasing at her lips as her eyelashes flutter closed and she rests her cheek against the shower wall.

“Come in me, like this,” she murmurs, as he slowly watches his cock disappear into the gorgeous, sleek mounds of her ass, gleaming beneath the spray of warm water. “Come in me and give me your fingers and bring me with you.”

_Fuck._

He grips her ass in both hands, gently spreading her wide, feeling her tight little muscles unfurl to make space for him, until he’s buried in her so deeply that he can let go with one hand and guide himself with the force of his own hips.

“God, that’s perfect, baby,” she sighs, “you feel so good, I knew you’d feel so good like this . . .”

“You imagined us doing this?” he whispers, voice coming out in a raw, choked gasp.

“I imagined us doing everything.”

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

His hand glides over the wet, silky skin of her thighs and as he moves in closer, pushing in deeper and deeper, his fingers find her clit and begin lightly teasing it.

“Mmmm,” she sighs. “No, baby, that’s not what I meant. It’s so good, but I need more.”

“Abby,” he groans, as she impatiently takes his hand in hers and guides it lower and then _oh Jesus, oh God,_ she’s pushing three of his fingers into her cunt. “Holy _shit,_ Abby . . .”

“That’s it, baby,” she moans, sighing with pleasure. “That’s perfect. You feel so good. Don’t stop.”

So he doesn’t stop. He fucks her from both directions, his fingers curling inside her to stroke her G-spot as his dick plunges in deeper and spreads her open, and she trembles in mute, gasping pleasure as he begins to pick up speed, until he’s fucking her against the wall nearly as hard as he was doing before. And still, she takes it hungrily, greedily, takes more of him than anyone else in his whole life has ever taken him like this. The friction is indescribably delicious, like nothing he’s ever felt before, she’s hot and tight and perfect and her answer to everything is _“Yes,”_ and when he feels her cunt begin to clench and tremble around his fingers he buries his mouth in the back of her neck and just lets go, lets his hips slam into hers, lets his body pin hers against the wet tile, until he comes so hard that he sees stars in his eyes, emptying into her beautiful, sleek ass over and over again, fingering her hard and rough to bring her with him a second time as he finally shudders to a halt.

_“Jesus,”_ he groans, kissing her throat over and over again as he pulls out and lets the hot water sluice away the sticky mess trailing down their glistening skin.

“Mmmm,” Abby sighs in drowsy pleasure, as he wraps his arms around her and turns her around to kiss her mouth. “I could really get used to traveling first class.”

“Yeah, this will be a lot harder next time if we’re in coach.”

“Fortunately, I do have a very nice shower at my house,” she points out wryly.

“Is that an invitation?”

“Did you think I was just going to wave goodbye to you at the airport and go my merry way?” she asks, laughing, as she turns off the faucet and steps out onto the bathmat, skin pink and clean.

“I wasn’t sure.”

“Well, either you’re coming home with me, or I’m going home with you. We still have a few more hours to decide.”

Marcus steps out of the shower behind her and cups her face in his hands, kissing her mouth for a long, sweet, still moment. It’s a different kind of kiss from before, a new kind, not desperate and greedy and urgent; it’s tender, more honest, and it seems to take Abby by surprise as he pulls away.

“Oh,” she says softly, eyes wide. “You really meant it.”

He looks down at the wet tile floor, suddenly feeling naked and vulnerable in front of her in a way that he didn’t even when he was fucking her against the wall of an airplane shower.

“I swear to God,” she murmurs. “I don’t know how this happened so quickly.”

“Neither do I.”

“Come here,” she says, pulling his head down to kiss him again, soft and sweet and gentle, as warm water trails down their bodies and pools onto the floor.

They kiss for a long time, until the air cools around them, until the whole floor is warm and slick, until finally Abby pulls away, smiling up at him.

“Come on,” she says. “We have hot coffee and eggs benedict and another six hours to enjoy being first class travelers. We don’t want to waste it.”

“Okay,” he says, handing her one towel and taking the other, “but I can’t promise I won’t be needing another shower later.”

“As many as you want,” she says, grinning at him. “We have all the time in the world.”


End file.
